


The Sharpness of Hands, The Softness of Glass

by cilceon



Series: Lying Eyes and Honest Hands [6]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Blood and Injury, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Partial Nudity, Scars, Serious Injuries, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-17 01:53:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29463801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cilceon/pseuds/cilceon
Summary: She tilted her head back and to the side – a sloppy movement. It was an attempt to see the army that he was suddenly so fascinated with. Wanderer couldn't remember him ever staring at her for this long of time. So, what made this moment different? She hadn't gotten far before his hand was cuffed on the side of her face tenderly, keeping her gaze on her partner. “Hey, come on, look at me not your arm.”A prick of a needle went into our skin and she shuddered in a breath. wanderer kept her eyes on his lips instead of the glasses. His mouth was pulled in a thin stressed line, she wanted to reach her hand out and lightly brush her thumb across the skin there erasing such a worried look from him. Where was the smile she had grown to love? Not the ones he said to a mark but the one just for her. Where the left corner of his mouth pulled up before the right. He never smiled like that for anyone else. The line of his mouth seemed to tighten, an indicator that the stimpack was not doing its job.
Relationships: Deacon/Female Sole Survivor
Series: Lying Eyes and Honest Hands [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1992751
Comments: 11
Kudos: 26





	1. Chapter 1

_“To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken._

_If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal._

_Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness._

_But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable._

_To love is to be vulnerable.”_

_- C.S. Lewis -_

Wanderer's head felt heavy. As if there was cotton in her mouth and lead in her veins. Vaguely she recalled hearing and clicking sound and then – was it Deacon who yelled something? It had to be. But it was wrong. She could have sworn it was her name that had left him. _Her_ name, not Wanderer. She had to be mistaken.

Deacon never said her actual name while they were working a job – if he ever said it at all. She moved her hand making it scrape across the splintered wood below her. Was Wanderer on the ground? Why? The D.I.A cache was secured, Pam needed to be informed. There wasn't time for her to be laying down in a suspiciously warm puddle.

“Char? Charlie can you hear me?” If Wanderer didn't know him, she would say that it were fear laced into his voice. “Charlie?”

 _Oh, he’s saying my name…_ she wanted to ask him to say it again, it was such a rare occasion when he did. But this was wrong. Deacon said her name in moments of seriousness, when it was just the two of them. There was always a question behind it – one he never asked out loud so she may answer.

Why did Deacon look so afraid? She tried to crack her mouth open to respond but his movement stopped her. Deacon had his hands on either shoulder now, the grip stinging into her skin. Which one of them was shaking? His head wasn't moving, yet she could feel his eyes darted from each part of her behind his glasses.

“Hey, hey it's okay. It's alright don't you say anything.” Her arm. He was definitely looking at her arm.

In a pathetic attempt of a motion, Wanderer tried to prop herself up from where taken had her leaning against an old counter, but for some odd reason he wouldn't let her. He shifted so that one hand was at the base of her neck while the other was rummaging around for a stimpack.

When it was in her line of sight she eyed it warily, once again trying to move away.

“I know, I know.” he sounded like he was talking to a wounded animal. “I know how much you hate these things Wands but believe me, you need this right now. _Please,_ stop moving.” What softness had permeated his voice? It made her heart hurt. He sounded so small. So different.

She tilted her head back and to the side – a sloppy movement. It was an attempt to see the army that he was suddenly so fascinated with. Wanderer couldn't remember him ever staring at her for this long of time. So, what made this moment different? She hadn't gotten far before his hand was cuffed on the side of her face tenderly, keeping her gaze on her partner. “Hey, come on, look at me not your arm.”

A prick of a needle went into her skin and she shuddered in a breath. wanderer kept her eyes on his lips instead of the glasses. His mouth was pulled in a thin stressed line, she wanted to reach her hand out and lightly brush her thumb across the skin there erasing such a worried look from him. Where was the smile she had grown to love? Not the ones he said to a mark but the one just for her. Where the left corner of his mouth pulled up before the right. He never smiled like that for anyone else. The line of his mouth seemed to tighten, an indicator that the stimpack was not doing its job – whatever that job was.

“S’it… is it that bad?” She croaked out, “My limbs s’all attached?”

“Sorry boss, looks like you're just ahead in the torso now.” The expression on his face did not change.

“Dee, what happened?” Wanderer could faintly feel the medicine attempting to kick in, allowing her mind to clear for a brief moment before snapping like a rubber band back into fuzz.

“You ah… you tripped a wire.” he looked away from her, scanning the room, “There was a trap I didn't see.”

“You okay?” The word stripped out of her like a freezing drainpipe, her now apparent blood loss fogging her thoughts far too much to hide any concern she would normally mask.

“Am I okay? Shit Wanderer. You almost got your arm blown off and you're asking me if I'm okay?” His thumb stroked her cheek as he responded. So light of a motion it was that she might as well have been made of her mother's old fine china.

“My arm got blown off?” Deacon still wouldn't let her look down. The firm, yet gentle placement of his hand on her jaw not moving.

“I said almost. You're gonna be fine once we get you back to Carrington or Ticon– Ticon’s closer.” His words trailed off as he looked over the rest of her body. He had gone quiet, which was rarely a good sign with him.

What else could she do in such a moment but try to lighten the mood, surely it is what he would have done if their roles were switched. “Are my toes all still there? I told Cogsworth he could paint ‘em and you know I can't let one of my boys down.”

He didn't respond, maybe it wasn't that funny. Should she say it again?

“There's a piece of glass in your leg.”

She let out of soft whine and once again attempted to set up, he once again stopped her. “Where’d s’it even come from?” It was with the hard thunk that her head hit the counter behind her, she closed her eyes.

“Display case.” He moved from her, taking her warmth with him. Wanderer kept her eyes shut as she listened to him rummage around on of their bags. “Hey, hey let’s keep those peepers open boss.” Deacon snapped his fingers in light, quick succession.

Wanderer did as she was asked and opened her eyes glaring up at him in the dimming light of the room, it seemed like the sun was setting. “Dee, don’ snap at me.” In his newfound distraction she saw an opportunity to glance down at her lap.

The glass in question wasn't in her leg per say, because she could make out the glint of the shard protruding from her inner thigh. Wanderer groaned again, more out of annoyance than pain. She couldn't really feel anything right now. “That better not be goin’ through my tendon.”

Noticing that his attention had been drawn elsewhere, Deacon’s hand went back to her face. He brushed the loose strands of her hair from her eyes, tucking the tendrils behind her ear. “Okay, I’m gonna walk you through what’s about to happen.” Had he ever been so gentle with her? Wanderer couldn't understand. Surely it wasn't that bad of an injury. “I’m going to pull that out of you, you’re going to most likely swear…” He picked his words carefully. “We’re going to shimmy your jeans down a little bit, then clean out your boo boo, then see if I need to stitch it u-”

“Nuh-uh.” Wanderer cut him off and attempted to sit up in protest. Deacon, for his part set his hand on her shoulder – once more preventing her movement with ease. It was starting to get on her nerves. The next words that left her coming off terser than they would normally. “It’s not that bad, we’re not putting stitches anywhere near me.” She said each syllable with a vigorous shake of her head. It was either that movement or the thought of a threading lace into her skin that made her nauseous.

“Wanderer. You need them, you’re getting them.” Deacon gave her shoulder a comforting squeeze before regrettably letting go and moving his hand to the inside of her thigh. He nudged her leg out to the side slowly so that the glass was resting in the curve of his thumb and pointer finger. “I promise it won't be so bad.”

In any other situations she'd be so happy to have his hand there, though Wanderer would never verbally say that to him. Regardless, she was sure he knew that by now.

She squeezed her eyes shut, “Easy for ya t’say. If I said that to ya if we were in a really high building ‘n I dragged ya ‘cross a cutty bridge sayin’ ‘oh it won’t be that bad’.” She wiggled her head from side to the side, eyes still closed, “What if I just went ahead ‘n went across it, then ya’d follow behind me all sorts of stressed out. Not that bad pff.”

At the end of her rant the sound of the shard being pinged off of the wooden floor that was followed by her belt being undone, she kept her eyes closed.

“I would act like a huge baby boss,” Wanderer could feel Deacon’s hand ghosting around the wound, diligently inspecting the damage. Her leg was beginning to throb, and whatever injury her shoulder had received was also making its appearance. She decided to focus on the contrast of the roughness of the pads of his fingers against the softness of her inner thigh instead of the pain. “Honest. I would throw a tantrum and everything. You’d be forced to carry me kicking and screaming. Every super mutant in the ‘wealth would come running.” He made a small tisking sound before continuing, “You can keep your eyes closed but you need to keep talking. Okay, Wands?”

“Mmhm.” Her voice was getting quiet, tired- but she didn’t want to disappoint him. “S’my turn to be the one with the show tunes.” There was a _tick tick clack_ of something light – plastic maybe, being set on the floor but she couldn’t quite make out what it was. “Dunno what ta talk ‘bout though, you’re the one with the words.”

“Ah, I know, you can tell me all about the battle of Carthage or something riveting like that.” His hand slowly left her body, returning to the bag besides them. It was when his skin left contact with hers that she realized how cold the room had become since the sun left the scene. “Got any juicy gossip about Garvey? Oh hey, did you know you have a freckle on your thigh? Oh! Recount to me the plot of your favorite B movie.” despite his ramblings, Deacon's movements were slow – calculated. He rested his palm on her knee, brushing over the skin there with his thumb. He was most likely about to tell her she was going to need stitches, wasn't he?

Wanderer took in a slow, shaking breath. “I ‘morized some sonnets for a class I was in durin’ high school…” His hand left her again. Wanderer wanted nothing more than for him just to touch her – to stay put. “Think I remember some of ‘em.”

“I’m more of a limerick kind of man, but eh I’ll take what I can get.” The warmth of his skin came back into contact with hers, it was followed by the unwelcome pricking of a needle. Their dance of her trying to move away and him keeping her in place was repeated.

She let out a soft pleading “No” that sounded nothing short of pitiful.

Deacon's hand twitched against her skin in response, an indicator that he didn't want to be doing this either. “It’ll be over soon, let’s hear that poem, yeah?”

A tear was threatening the corner of Wanderer’s eye which she didn’t move to wipe away. Balling her hands into fists instead. She didn’t have the energy to put strength into the action, “Um yeah… When to the sessions of sweet silent thought,” The pricks were continuous now, methodical in moment. Relentless. “I… um I summon up remembrance of things past, n’ I sigh the lack of many thing I uh sought-” She sucked in a breath sharply, feeling the thread be pulled taught.

Deacon continued the next line in her pause, “And with old woes new wail my dear times’ waste.” His voice was gentle, encouraging, but edged with concentration.

She nodded in a jerk of a motion, head heavy and eyes squeezed shut as tight as could be mustered. “Then can I drown ‘n eye, unused t’flow, for precious friends hid in death’s – dateless night. ‘nd weep afresh love’s long-since canceled woe, ‘n moan the expense of many a vanished sight.” A shaky break, tears catching in her throat, she continued. “Then can I grieve at grievance foregone… heavily from woe to woe tell o’er, the sad account of – of a fore-bemoaned moan, which I new pay as if not paid before… But if the while I think on thee, dear frien– ah ow!” The thread was pulled tight once more, her hands were shaking. Nails desperately wanting to be strong enough to dig into her palms. “All losses are restored ‘n… and…”

"Sorrows end.” There was a _snip_ of the string being cut, “Just like this. You did great, Charlie.” Deacon left her once more in favor of the bag, voice muffling as he turned from her.

“I don’t _feel_ good.” Wanderer opened her eyes slowly, jealous of whatever was keeping him from her for so long. Deacon was still turned from her, yet she could see that he was wiping his hands with a rag. The now risen moonlight streaming through the grime of the windows made them look dark – almost shiny. “Why ya’ hands shinny?”

He answered automatically, “It’s your blood honey.” Then his back straightened, a ripple of tension going through his shoulders. Did she do something wrong? Deacon held the rag in one hand, the other reaching to the side to grab something she couldn’t make out, before bringing it to his face. _Oh, he took his glasses off._

He turned back to her now, rag in hand. “Let’s get you cleaned up and decent, what would the neighbors say?” Deacon’s voice was light with the joke, but the tension was still in his body. Wanderer doubted that, regardless of her current mental state, anyone else would've noticed. What did she do to upset him? He put an arm under hers and the other in the crook of her knees, moving her from the blood underneath her body. He leaned her against the wall and began dabbing away the blood. It was all effortless, like she didn't weigh anything more than a pillow.

“Dee… did I do somethin’ wrong?” A twitch in his jaw was the only response, she knew how uncomfortable it made him that she was starting to read him so well. “M’sorry, I didn’t mean to.” Her voice was getting drowsier, but now there was sadness weaved into it. She felt like a child apologizing for spilling juice.

“You did eat the rest of the BlamCo yesterday, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to fully recover.” He sighed dramatically and set the back of his hand against his forehead, leaving a streak of red on his skin. Deacon moved to pull her jeans back up, Wanderer didn’t want to lift herself to help. “Come on, let’s get that tooshie up.”

“I don’t wanna.” Her voice was getting quieter. “I’m tired.” A voice in her head was begging her to keep her eyes open. Wanderer didn’t want to listen to it. She moved her body to help him.

“I’m going to check on your shoulder, okay?”

“M’kay.” She felt the fabric of her flannel move over to the side, the cold of the room raising goosebumps on her skin. “cold.”

“Yeah, it’s getting nippy…” He went quiet, examining her shoulder for longer than she though was right. “Wanderer.”

“Hm?” Her eyes stayed closed, Deacon’s hand went to her face, cuffing the side of her jaw. Thumb moving back and forth across her cheek. The touch wasn’t warm like it was earlier.

“I asked if it hurts?” The gentleness was back in his voice. The movement of his hand matching his tone.

“…dunno…” Wanderer focused on the feeling of his touch. She wanted him to stop talking, she wanted to go to sleep.

“You don’t know?” He repeated her answer more clearly then kept talking, she wanted to pay attention, really, she did. But Wanderer was so tired, it wouldn’t be that bad if she just took a nap for a few minutes… Deacon would wake her up.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I'm not a medical student so please excuse the inaccuracies)

_“My blue bucket of gold. Friend, why don't you love me?  
Once the myth has been told. The lens deforms it as lightning  
Raise your right hand. Tell me you want me in your life  
Or raise your red flag. Just when I want you in my life  
Search for things to extol. Friend, the fables delight me  
My blue bucket of gold. Lord, touch me with lightning  
Raise your right hand. Tell me you want me in your life  
Or raise your red flag. Just when I want you in my life”_

_\- Sufjan Stevens, Blue Bucket of Gold -_

“Don’t know whatcha mean, I was as cool as a cucumber.”

“Uh-huh.” High Rise rolled a puzzle piece between is fingers, “With how you’ve been sulking, it’s like you think she’s dead. Copper’s got the strongest stimpack we had in her and they say the blood transfusion should have worked. Wanderer’ll be fine.”

A voice scoffed from their side. “I didn’t say the transfusion _should_ have worked. I know it did.” Copper, Ticon’s very own version of Doc Carrington, was in the midst of finishing cleaning up the makeshift hospital in the corner of the lobby. They were a lot more approachable than Carrington – but more in a Glory than a Wanderer sort of way. When Deacon brought her in through the elevator, it was Copper who greeted them.

Well, instead of any formal greeting they had sighed with a shake of their head and gestured to the gurney They had rolled up their sleeves like a kid had just tracked mud through a hallway as they said, “Put her down there and explained what you did.” A twitch in their eyebrow was Deacon’s only indicator that the situation was serious.

They knelt down by a filing cabinet that normally had assorted blood packs inside, it was empty. “Bringing Wands in here like a drowned rat, _gah_. What’s her blood type?”

Deacon tucked Wanderer’s hair behind her ear, fingers lingering against her skin, right above a scratch from one of the glass shards for just a beat longer than he should. Not looking to Copper he responded without hesitation. “AB negative.”

Copper made an annoyed sound, turning from the empty container, “And you are?”

“O negative.”

They clapped a hand over his shoulder, “Great. Sit down and start talking me through what injuries she has…” They looked to Wanderer; she was so pale. “How much blood do ya’ think is inside you?”

“Enough.”

Copper nodded. “Relax. I know what I’m doing.” They moved to another shelf, then pulled down two empty blood packs before turning to rummage through a drawer.

He didn’t answer as he took the seat next to Wanderer. Her chest was rising and falling rhythmically, but slower than it should have been. Her skin was ashen, clothes covered in blood. Deacon wanted to say it was the incoming rad storm adding a green tinge to the safehouse that made her skin change. He knew it wasn’t.

“What’s wrong with her.” They didn’t look up from their search.

Deacon’s mouth twitched, “She had glass in her inner thigh, a gash on her shoulder.”

Copper nodded, setting down a tin of needles, then moved to Wanderer. “I take it was her left shoulder.” They gestured to the blood before beginning to unbutton her shirt, gaining better access to her arm. Copper frowned. “You stick her with a dud stim?”

He nodded, hand reaching out for her own before he could completely stop himself. Changing his course last minute, he placed it on the gurney next to hers – skin not touching. “Stitched up her thigh too.”

“Figured as much. She’d be dead otherwise.” Copper tilted their head, examining the gash. “I’ght. Take her shoes off then help me lift her so I can get the jeans.”

Deacon had been in the same room as Wanderer countless times while she changed, but he had never directly looked at her. In the bright light of Ticon he allowed himself the honor. She wasn't eating enough – he already knew that but seeing the bottom outline of her rib cage drilled that fact home. She had been out in the wasteland for a year now, coming up on two. It was taking its toll on her. Small scars peppered her arms, torso, and her legs. Most were the ghost of grazes, one on her leg from rolling around with Dogmeat, another a molerat bite. Two thin lines across the back of her forearm from a Tom experiment gone wrong, another on her bicep from retaking the Castle. She had been lucky up until this point. If he had been more carful this wouldn’t have happened.

Coper moved to the side, revealing a thin white line of a scar on her lower abdomen. He had never notice it before. It was smoother than any scar he had seen from an injury that looked so deep.

Copper looked up from Wanderer’s thigh. “It's a cesarean scar from childbirth.” they explained, “Never seen one so clean before.”

Deacon nodded, settling back into the chair as Copper worked. “Will she be alright.” His words were heavy, a seriousness laced into them that he knew the doctor had never heard from him.

They grabbed a rag, soaking it in a liquid from a brown bottle. “I told you. I know what I’m doing.” They took the rag to her thigh, the liquid soaked into it began fizzing slightly on her skin. Copper nodded to themself after a moment. “Good. It’s not too infected. The stitchwork ain't half bad, I don't think I'm going to have to redo it if the tendon wasn't cut”

“Used to be a seamstress before joining the Railroad.”

“If what you just told me was true, I wouldn't have said half bad Deacon.” Copper grabbed a thin blanket from one of the shelves and draped it over Wanderer, leaving her arm above the fabric. Then they moved an old coat rack out from behind the gurney, reaching for the emptied blood pack and beginning the transfusion. “This could take up to three hours so get comfortable and roll up your sleeve.”

High Rise sighed, bringing Deacon’s attention back to the present moment. “What would we do without you Copper?”

They wiped their hands with the now blood-stained rag, tossing it into a bucket. “You’d all bleed out on the floor.” Copper turned towards the stairs now, heading to their room. “I’m going check on N7 and my little patient. Then I’m going to bed. You two shits best keep it down and let the rest of us sleep.”

“Scout’s honor.” Deacon crossed his fingers over his chest before returning them to his lap. Wanderer’s blood was in the cracks of his knuckles, under his nails.

High Rise returned his attention back to the puzzle piece in his hand, resigned to find its home on the board. “You wanna tell me what happened out there Dee Man?”

Deacon picked up a previously ignored mug off the table, looking into the cold coffee inside being the lenses of his glasses, “Do you want the extended version or the short version?”

High Rise scoffed, “We got time.” He found the home of the puzzle piece, snapping it in place then moved to the next.

“Well, you see, Wanderer got shot out of a window by the biggest super mutant I’ve ever seen. Fell two whole stories into a moldy haybale.”

His companion lifted an eyebrow, music from the radio filling the silence. The Platters? Deacon couldn’t remember. “She tripped a wire while we were on a milk ‘n cookies run.” He continued to stare into the bitter liquid in the mug, was coffee good pre-war? It certainly wasn’t now. “It was in an old department store, blew up a glass display case or fish tank or something.”

“Damn, well yeah that'll do it.” High Rise discarded the puzzle piece and grabbed another.

“It happened so fast H. Always fucking does.” He brought the coffee mug to his mouth taking a heavy swig from it.

“I’m relieved you both made it here. We can’t go losing two of our most important pieces.” High Rise succeeded with this puzzle piece, picking up another. “Never seen you in that kind of state when I came down the stairs.”

High Rise was right. “I wasn't in a state. Like I said, cool as a cucumber.”

“Pfft, yeah I can’t read you like Wands can, but I know what it means when you get quiet.”

Deacon drank the last of the coffee with a shrug. “I had to lug her butt halfway through Lexington with a rad storm rolling in, I got sleepy.”

“Where did you find Wander anyways?”

He didn't know why High Rise picked that particular topic changer. He had to have known that Deacon would never actually give the real answer. High Rise shook his head and squinted at the puzzle piece in his fingers.

Deacon wouldn't even know where to start with that particular truth… “She was running with the caravan up in Bunker Hill. Fell for my charms, you know how it goes.”

High Rise set the puzzle piece down and then leaned back against the couch. “You should have been more careful, and Wanderer should have been too. But it’s over and you’re both still breathing. Move on and learn from it right? That’s your whole thing Dee. It's not like you to worry like that… almost like she's a good influence on you or something.”

“You think I’m changing? I've never changed a thing about me a day in my life High Rise, I’m wounded.” He pressed his hand against his chest in mock hurt, making a point not to look at it.

He rolled his eyes with a cross of his arms. “Sarcasm can only get you so far.”

“As far as I need it to.” The sound of a door opening and closing softly, stopped their conversation.

N7-07 tripped on the stairs on his way down to the lobby turned living room. Deacon was already on his feet. Heading towards the synth.

Thankfully, he did so because without him there, N7 would have smacked into the ground and not into Deacon’s chest. “Everything alright buddy?” He asked, keeping his posture calm, though he was sure N7 could feel his heartbeat and how absurdly fast it was suddenly going. _Get it together Deacon._

“Ah, yes, everything is fine. Wanderer is awake, well she was awake. I think, I think she’s asleep now… but I talked to her for a little bit. She's okay.”

“Of course, she's fine.” Deacon set N7 upright, “It's her. When isn't she fine?” He looked out the window at the storm now in full swing. It still didn’t look to be leaving anytime soon. “What did our little Wanderer say?”

“Oh um, she asked for you.” He ducked his head, moving to sit in Deacon’s now abandoned spot next to High Rise, attention now on the puzzle.

“Well go on,” High Rise waved his hand, “It’s your turn to sit with her anyways.”

“Well, doesn’t that warm my little old heart. Bet she’s going to yell at me about her shirt getting all dirty.”

Deacon made his way up the stairs and opened the door softly to quiet any creak that might come out of it as N7 had done before. “Knock, knock.” He whispered, shutting the door behind him.

Wanderer looked like she was asleep. As he took the seat next to the bed he looked her over. Her skin wasn’t back to its normal tone yet but it was getting there.

The gash in her shoulder was now dressed, expertly done so by Copper. As was the prick in the crook of her elbow from the transfusion. She looked so small underneath the heavy quilt. Hands on either side of her body, her gold wedding band glinted with the green of the storm that illuminated the small room.

“You just gonna stare at me?” She croaked out, opening her eyes slowly. The sharp focus they normal held had returned.

Deacon let out a yelp, causing the corners of her mouth to turn up ever so slightly. Like he knew they would from such an outburst. “I was actually thinking of painting your nails.”

“Don’t you dare Dee; I’ll make High Rise stick you out in the storm.”

He let out a theatrical gasp, “Why you would never!”

The smile on her face grew and then fell. “Are you okay?”

He reached out and wrapped his fingers over her own. _Shit._ Deacon wasn’t thinking, he forgot his place. But it was too late. If he took his hand back it would make her sad. So instead of pulling away, he rubbed tinny circles on the back of her hand with his thumb.

Wanderer’s skin was soft, the pad of his thumb disgustingly rough in comparison.

“I’m peachy, Wanderer…just peachy.” Between his movement he gave her hand a light squeeze. “More importantly, how are you feeling?”

She hummed in thought, “I’m sleepy, ‘n my thigh is angry. But I think I’ll live.”

“Angry as in ‘oh damn I stepped in a puddle’ or angry as in ‘oh damn Desdemona is out of cigs’?”

Wanderer moved her head from left to right against the pillow, as if she were weighing the options presented. “I think its angry in a ‘dear lord what have you done to me’ kind of way.”

_What have you done to me indeed._

“Well, I guess stitches will do that.”

“Hm what? I have what?” Wanderer grimaced and attempted to borrow herself farther into the quilt. She stopped moving abruptly, eyes peeping open right above the blanket up at him. “Is – is that why the inside of my thigh… oh this is horrible.”

He shrugged, “I didn’t look at your vacooter boss if that’s what you’re worried about.” He knew that back before the war people were a little bit shyer about particular parts of the body being out, but most people now adays didn’t care who saw what in drastic situations – say a giant piece of glass getting blasted into your inner thigh.

She closed her eyes again, taking a deep breath through her nose, like she was debating throwing the man out the window. “Did you really just call my vagina a vacooter Deacon.”

Deacon’s grin widened. “If I say it enough maybe it’ll catch on. I can become the pioneer of new hip slang. Can you imagine how pissed Glory would be?”

She smiled while shaking her head, returning from the depths of the blanket. “The world’s not ready for that.” Wanderer trailed off for a moment. “I’m real glad we get to be that kind of close Dee.” Sarcasm was fraying into her words.

“I would hope so,” She laced her finders with his as he spoke. “Be awkward if you weren’t.”

“Why’s that?” She let her head plop to the side gently against the pillow, eyes closing like a cat’s while lying in the sun.

 _Oh no. Lie or truth. Lie or truth. Lie or-_ “You were hurt really bad and needed a little pick me up in the way of a blood donor.”

“Oh…” She went quiet, taking in what he was saying. The grip on is hand tightened with what strength she could muster. “You really did that for me?” Wanderer’s voice was quiet, Deacon assumed it was because sleep was trying to win her over.

“Of course, hu–.” He bit his tongue; thankful her eyes were closed. He had called her honey after she had first gotten hurt. She was into much of a daze to notice, thank god. He was slipping. What right could he possibly thing he had to call her something like that? What her husband had once called her. What part of him tried to decide that, yes, he deserved to call her such a thing? He didn’t – no fucking way. She almost died because of him. And he saw the way Preston stared at her when she wasn’t looking. She should be with someone good, not a–

“Deacon.” Wanderer was looking up at him through half lidded eyes, sleep tugging at her. “You turning worry stones into mountains again?”

He gave her hand another squeeze but refused to take it away. He didn’t answer her.

“I don’t know what stupid thought your thinking.” _Ouch._ “But stop it. I'm okay.”

“Dez is gonna be pissed that you have to take leave time.”

She grimaced much like she did a minute prior. “Is it really that bad?”

“Copper says you're going to have a hard time walking for a few weeks.” He glanced out the window, a flash of lightning ringing out through the storm. “But you’ll be okay.”

“Are you?” She asked again.

He looked back at her from the window. “I’m peachy.”

Wanderer looked at him, thinking before she spoke. “I worried you.”

Their intertwined fingers felt like stones. Heavy yet pulsing with life. She always did that. When there was information – truth she wanted from him, Wanderer would say the question as a statement. Like it was a prompt Deacon could play with while she listened. “No more than usual boss.” He looked away from her, desperate for a distraction. There was a small stack of books in the desk across from them, an emptied kerosene lamp resting on top - that he drew his attention to. “I didn’t know High Rise kept books in here.”

She hummed, a quiet understanding that he didn’t want to elaborate. “Read to me?”

“Me? Oh Wanderer, you know I’ve never held a book before in my life.”

“It’s easy.” She smiled, “Just pick one up ‘n turn to a random page.”

Deacon squeezed her hand before letting go, it felt like roots of a tree were being split. He moved to the desk and set the lamp to the side, taking the book from the top of the stack, then returned to his seat at her side. _Your Forces and How to Use Them_ , was written below an orange sunset. “It’s no Orison Wells, but hey its better than a medical journal about the structure of a pancreas.”

Wanderer looked at the book from the pillow. “I’m sure you’ll make it interesting.”

He did as she requested and turned to a random page in the book. The storm providing enough light to read by, even with his glasses on. “Promise yourself,” he began, “to be so strong that nothing can disturb your peace of mind. To talk health, happiness, and prosperity to every person you meet. To make all your friends feel that there is something in them. To look at the sunny side of everything and make your optimism come true.” Deacon looked over to her from the page, Wanderers’ eyes were closed, “Sounds like you Wands.”

She smiled slightly, the need to sleep permeated with sadness in the expression.

Deacon quieted his voice as he continued, “To think only the best, to work only for the best, and to expect only the best. To be just as enthusiastic about the success of others as you are about your own. To forget the mistakes of the past and press on to the greater achievements of the future. To wear a cheerful countenance at all times and give every living creature you meet a smile. To give so much time to the improvement of yourself that you have no time to criticize others. To be too large for worry, too noble for anger, too strong for fear, and too happy to permit the presence of trouble. To think well of yourself and to proclaim this fact to the world, not in loud words but great deeds.” He paused a moment with an exhale. “To live in faith that the whole world is on your side so long as you are true to the best that is in you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! If you liked it please leave a comment! They're my main motivation to keep writing!!  
> -lyss

**Author's Note:**

> please leave a comment of you though this read okay, they're my only motivation to keep writing...


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